The Other Side of Eden
by Mischief Not Yet Managed
Summary: Katniss Everdeen is the sole survivor of the 74th Hunger Games. Scarred and trying to suppress the horrors enough to carry on, little does she know that she is about to be thrown into a series of awful events possibly worse than all her previous experiences combined that would have any lesser person admitting defeat. Happy Hunger Games, darlings; watch your back.
1. Dead On Arrival

**The Other Side of Eden**

**Prologue: Dead On Arrival **

* * *

_"It was the roar of the crowd that gave me heartache to sing_

_It was a lie when they smiled and said 'You won't feel a thing'"_

~from "Disenchanted" by My Chemical Romance

* * *

It's deafeningly loud. The cheers. Too loud. Too harsh. Too... sickening.

I woke up strapped to a hospital bed two days ago, tubes in my nose to help me breathe and an IV in my arm to sedate the pain of the injuries inflicted upon my body in the 74th Annual Hunger Games by the arena and my fellow tributes, all of whom are now dead. The first few moments of consciousness, as I had glanced around the sterile white room in confusion and fear, were possibly worse than any other few moments of my life because I knew that, by my hand, twenty-three innocents were dead.

_Not your fault; it's theirs,_ I chide myself as I plaster a fake smile onto my lips and answer Caesar Flickerman's enthusiastic greetings as Haymitch has directed me to answer them.

"Remember sweetheart," he said right before he went on stage, "you're still in the Games, so play."

Yes, I am still in the Games, even though my arena days are over.

Caesar's horrifyingly vibrant blue hair is distracting me as I try to match his light banter and answer his prying questions as naturally as I possibly can, swallowing the vomit that threatens to come forth from my mouth as the audience begins clapping when the screen behind us starts to play the recap of my Hunger Games, my hell.

It seems impossibly long, even if it is a mere three hours, it seems like eternity. My feet curl up to my body on my chair, and my fingers shake as I clutch at my arms, nails digging into skin. I am numb to the physical pain, instead delving into the dark place that was my world the past several weeks (and would be forever more), giving into the emotional and mental stress it brings me. I don't know how I make it through the "movie." It is a miracle that I am not in tears and running off the stage away to my room up on the 12th floor of the Training Center by the time it is finally, mercifully, over.

And so the questions continue. Caesar senses my detachment (and possibly my waning sanity as well), and tries to open me up and, when that fails, simply carries on with his show as usual. Except, even the rambunctious spectators in the crowd below the stage are getting bored quickly with my bland answers and their lack of detail. The anthem plays fairly quickly after, and I glare at the symbol of our pathetic country as it plays, loathing myself. Loathing them. Loathing life. Love. Loss. And everything else that has made it impossible for me to at least _act _alive.

No one speaks to me on the elevator ride up to the 12th floor (well, Effie attempts at conversation, but the silence stretches when she's ignored, as Effie often is), and I'm allowed to walk with a labored step to the confines of my room, which was never actually mine. I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, still wearing the beautiful dress Cinna designed, the well done makeup on my face courtesy of my prep team, and the glamorous red heels; my sleep is often disturbed by the nightmares I had anticipated.

The nightmares consist of a mix of my life in District 12, the horror of my Hunger Games, and other horrible, unmentionable things produced by the innermost masochistic workings of my mind. I toss and I turn and I cry and I scream, but I make it to the dawn's light streaming through my windows, by some long overdue miracle.

But Effie is soon there to ruin the sun's brief promise of a better time ahead of me, proclaiming this another "Big, big, big day!"

I move through the days after the first interview as a ghost, a zombie with the number seventy-four plastered to my back. More interviews. More dresses. More deafening crowds that I secretly wish to let burn in the deepest pits of hell. More pretending I'm someone I am not. More playing the role the Capitol wants me the play, because, after all, it's their game. Of course it is.

Their extravagant banquets with their foreign dishes make me sick to the core, thinking of the starving slums of home. Their fancy machinery leaves me wanting to smash it with the side of one of my own bows, not their golden ones. Their clothes make me grip my own in utter disgust with myself for abiding by their dress code. Their personalities are so fake that I wonder if they are all secretly robots programmed to annoy the living shit out of me. The Capitol repulses me in every possible way.

Not to mention the sadistic nature these people have about them. And that they find nothing wrong with what they are doing, that they _enjoy_ the show of it all, infuriates me to no end. I would happily kill them all if that were at all possible, never mind the illegality of it. One day, I swear, I will have President Snow's head decapitated from his body and placed on a plaque above the entrance to our Justice Building back home.

But no. Of course, that is impossible. The option of fight, of fighting _back_ isn't in my reach. I_ can't_. Even if I could, it's not as if I'd win, but at least I'd have sent a message and proved something to myself.

The depression and fear of what I've lived through and the pain and guilt of being the one to come out of the arena, even if I visit it every night while I sleep and sometimes during the daylight hours, is there constantly and consistently, lurking in the corners of my mind away from wandering eyes. Survivor's guilt, I've heard it diagnosed before.

_It's not your fault, Katniss... not your's..._

The only time I find a somewhat established peace is when I am with other so-called "victors" or under the clouded influence of the alcohol Haymitch so graciously is willing to spare. The other victors seem to have a grasp of my hell, as I have a grasp of their's. Most don't accept me; I don't ask them to. But they are there, and that's all that I _can_ ask.

We're sent back to District 12, Haymitch and I, after the last buzz of excitement for the 74th Hunger Games fades, but it doesn't feel like home, just another battlefield. But really, isn't that what my poor little district has always been? I walk the streets without purpose, dreading returning to my house in the Victor's Village. I hunt for no reason other than habit, giving all the game to Gale and his family. I talk to people only when necessary, because I don't want to tell anymore lies, and, if I spoke truth, I know no one would understand.

However, by the time the Victory Tour rolls around, I am considerably better. I am more myself. And though it_ is_ extremely taxing to see the faces of the families of those I have killed, the children who might have been here if I wasn't, I am miraculously able to move on. Because that's what Katniss Everdeen does: fights the demons and moves on when they've been suppressed enough to finally be _able _to move on_._

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. And this is the story of how I survived my shitty life.


	2. The Pros And Cons Of Breathing

**The Other Side of Eden**

**Part One: All That Remains**

**Chapter One: The Pros And Cons Of Breathing**

* * *

_"And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree  
There will be an answer; let it be  
For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see  
There will be an answer; let it be"_

~from "Let It Be" by the Beatles

* * *

"Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!" Something mildly heavy falls - or, rather, _jumps_ - on my back, and small hands shake my shoulders rapidly.

I shoot up off the bed, throwing the person off me and tackling them to the ground, pinning them with my knees on their sides and my hands holding their's above their head. All this before I can even open my eyes.

A shocked gasp pierces the air. My eyes snap open. "Prim?"

The poor girl looks about to cry; her lower lip trembles, her wide eyes portraying fear for me, for me her sister that just attacked her for no clear reason. "Katniss?" she tentatively asks.

I stare at her for a bit before freeing her hands and sliding off her stomach, rolling to the floor next to her before regaining a standing position. I sigh heavily, shaking my head as I offer her a hand up that she cautiously takes. "What is it?" I must sound irritated to her, at her. That isn't true; I'm irritated with myself for responding that way. Prim shouldn't have to deal with her traumatized, hyper-aware Hunger Games survivor sister.

"I'm... sorry. I just..." Her blue eyes seem to have been startled out of their sparkle. "It's Rory's birthday. Remember...? We were going to run over to their house real early and surprise him? And we were going to bring him a cake?"

Ah. I remember this, yes. Today is the 21st of March, Rory's 13th birthday. The day of the reading of the card for the Quarter Quell, the 75th Hunger Games, but nevermind that. Rory's birthday. Okay, right.

I feel bad for having scared her, the girl I went through hell to protect - but that's irony for you, so I force a smile on my exhausted face. "Of course. I'm sorry; I forgot for a second. Come on." I take her hand and lead her down the stairs into the kitchen. "I'm guessing you want breakfast first, huh?" I smile softly over my shoulder at her as I pick through the pantry, sorting through all the brand name goods to get to the back were all the baking things are kept, pulling out a box of pancake mix.

She grins back at me enthusiastically. Prim has never been one to turn down food, setting aside whatever matters she was supposed to be attending to, to gorge herself; I don't think there is anyone in District 12 who would dream of passing up food. She nods her head up and down quickly.

I chuckle to myself and get out the supplies needed for breakfast. Pancakes aren't a food that I was familiar with before entering the Capitol, but I fell in love with them almost instantly; I have Effie send me packages filled with pancake mix boxes. They were fairly easy to learn how to make, even if I have a tendency to accidentally flip some off of the pan. Anyway, I took to making them for Prim on special occasions.

Breakfast is an event of laughing, Prim perching on the counter, cheering every time I manage to flip those fluffy bites of breakfast-y goodness onto her plate without utterly failing; I laugh along with her when one comes down and lands on me.

It is still early in the day when we are making our way out of the Victor's Village. It is still quite cold, so Prim is hurrying along quickly to arrive in the sheltered, warmer air of the bakery. I'd avoided the bakery after my Games, and I try to make this trip as quick as possible (even if it means going back into that dreadfully freezing air), dragging Prim out the door before she can get too carried away admiring the place, giving the baker a quiet, fleeting goodbye and thank you for the cake.

"Why couldn't we have stayed longer?" Prim whines as I pull her away towards the less presentable part of the District, the place I grew up in, the Seam, where Gale, Rory, and the rest of the Hawthrones still live.

I shake my head to evade answering, not even feeling any guilt for not explaining; Prim doesn't need to know some things - her fragile, innocent (when compared with mine) mind could not take what I would have to clarify in order to accurately answer that question.

Thankfully, she doesn't push me, rather she jogs a bit to catch up to my long strides and match me pace for pace.

It does not take us very long at all to reach their door (District 12 is quite probably the smallest district in Panem), and soon Hazelle's smiling face is welcoming us inside. "Shh," she warns us. "Everyone is asleep."

I raise my eyebrows at that, leaning against the doorway while Prim gently sets the cake on the table. "Even Gale?" It doesn't make sense for him of all people to still be in bed at this hour (even if it is merely 7:00 a.m; he is usually up at the crack of dawn).

She glances at Prim before answering me, her head inclining in my direction naturally. "That medicine your mother gave him yesterday really tired him out," she whispers sadly, worrying for her eldest son's health.

We both look at the door that leads to the room he and his two brothers share at the same time.

Hazelle sighs and brushes a stray lock of hair back behind her ear.

My mouth sets into a small frown. "At least he's getting some rest."

"Finally," she murmurs, leaning her head back on the wall, watching Prim go about the unwrapping of the cake with her unconcealed excitement.

Gale had been out of commision with a terrible, most often deadly flu for the passed several days. We're unsure who he contracted it from, or if he is the start of the virus's rounds, but it really is a lucky thing that my mother is a healer, and we now have the Capitol supplies at our hands to treat, if not completely cure it. That's what you might call a miraculously wonderful coincidence. In other, less fortunate cases, we, in District 12, call this virus the Inescapable Plague, which brings with it nothing but death. We'd been keeping how serious this was from Prim and Gale's siblings because we really didn't want them to worry, but now he is in recovery; thank God, if he truly does exist.

Hazelle shakes her head. "Where is your mother? She didn't contract...?"

I snort. "She's asleep, per usual."

She chuckles quietly beside me. "Elaine never was an early riser." The smile remains on her face.

"No," I agree, smirking to myself subtly. I remember several occasions when Prim or I (usually me) would try to get her up and she would just push us off and mutter "Later, girls; mommy's sleeping." At the time, that had just pissed me off greatly; that was back when she had shut out the world, after dad died. But I find it amusing with the new perspective I have gained; my mother really is just a slightly entertaining child who I can only ever really respect when she's doing her medical thing. But, even presently, my mother still hates getting up in the morning.

Prim calls over to us from the kitchen table. "Should we bring the cake to him or him to the cake? Shouldn't we get the others up beforehand?"

"Great idea Prim, and, yes, we should take it to him," Hazelle says kindly, walking over to the small kitchen to rummage through a drawer for a candle and match. When she finds one, she rights herself and turns to smile at Prim. "Go on in, dear. Be careful not to make too much noise. Katniss would you please get Vick and Gale up? I hate to wake him but it _is _his brother's birthday," she remarks of her eldest son. When I nod, she hands me the single candle and match. "I'll wake up Posy - if she isn't already awake and talking to her stuffed animal that is." She laughs to herself before heading into the room that she and her daughter share.

That reminds me: I need to buy Posy a new stuffed animal or two; the girl hardly has many toys at all and her one stuffed bunny is falling apart at the seams, missing an eye and some stuffing, not to mention how dirty it has gotten over the years. But that bunny has sentimental value I'd guess... well, she doesn't have to play with the one I get her if she doesn't want to.

Prim has already gone into the boys' room and is waiting patiently by Rory's bed with the cake in her hands; she's barely maintaining her silence with all the delight and excitement building up inside of her.

Since Rory's is the bottom bunk of the bunk bed, I work my way up the ladder to shake awake Vick on the top. His eyes open fairly quickly. His face is bleary with sleep still encrusted in his eyes. "What...?" I "Shh" him and jerk my head to the side indicating that we should get back down to the floor. He yawns and nods, following me down the ladder to stand by Prim; evidently having seen the cake brought him an understanding of why the Everdeens were randomly in his room and waking him up.

I look over at Gale's sleeping, sick face. Well, it isn't so sick anymore; he's recovering, but he really gave us all a scare there for a little bit. I gently shake his shoulder. "Gale." The way he sits up so quick, you might've thought him a victor. His eyes dart around wildly, his hand going for a knife on his belt that isn't there. Until he sees me. Then he calms and slowly lays back down, bringing the pillow up over his face. "Yes, may I help you?"

"Sorry," I shoot back at the sarcasm in his voice, but then mine softens again. I sigh. "It's Rory's birthday."

He throws the pillow towards the end of the bed that is too short for his tall frame and sits up, stretching his arms above his head in a way that would have most of the girls in our school drooling with the view that is provided by his shirt rising up.

Me? I roll my eyes, grab his arm, and pull him to his feet. "Everyone else is already up; come on, slacker."

He jumps at my touch, probably still in the what I like to call "victor mode."

Hazelle is holding Posy up in her arms, but Gale takes his sister from her; Hazelle shoots him a concerned, but nonetheless grateful look - after all, Posy isn't all too light anymore.

"How do we wake him up?" Prim whispers. "Just start singing?"

At Hazelle's ascent, I stick the candle into the cake, light it after a bit of difficulty with the stupid match, and we all start up a chorus of "Happy Birthday To You." It sounds rather strange: Posy's off-time "birthday to Rory!"s and Vick's sleep filled voice barely forcing the words passed his mouth and Prim all too enthusiastic. But it's us; it's far better this way. And, anyway, it wakes Rory up alright. He wakes up to his family and friends and it isn't long at all before he is grinning ear to ear. It feels nice to do this for someone.

Festivities had lasted for a couple of hours before Gale went back to sleep and Prim and I back to our house, again speeding up our pace to get inside of the thoughtfully heated space.

Prim runs through the door, hearing the phone go off; I still can't get used to that noise - I hate that thing with an undying passion, but it isn't enough for me to actually, say, rip it from the wall, unlike _some_ people. And speaking of _some _people, Haymitch himself is on the phone (though he lives two doors down from me and I'd forgotten Effie had made him reinstall his phone); Prim says she can't understand what he's saying over the crashing in the background - another one of his drunk episodes, probably.

I sigh. "I'll take care of it."

She nods and ventures off into the living room where my mother sits with her coffee, reading a book her own mother had given her when she was very young. Funny, I'm almost certain she had ripped all her old paperback romance novels to shreds when my father had died. I give it little to no thought and jog the short distance from my house in this deserted neighborhood to his.

When I arrive on the doorstep, the big, heavy oak door is wide open, letting out all the stink from the liquor he drank and giving me a full view of all the wrappers and bottles and dirty socks and assortment of other things that litters the floor. Classic, Haymitch. Classic. I pull my shirt up to cover my nose and forcibly step through the doorway with a deliberate walk meant for not stepping on anything - a very unimaginably difficult task. I can hear his incoherent yelling and the crashes Prim spoke of. I locate him in the dining room, smashing dishes. Perfect.

I stand there for a few moments, casually leaning against the doorframe, observing the scene in front of me, trying to fully assess the level of insanity I'm here to fix. Haymitch just continues breaking all the dishes until there are none left for him to smash. Finally, he takes notice of me and I am startled by the intensity of his gaze. I realize that he is still very much sober.

"You called?" I ask sardonically.

"You answered?" he drawls, deadpanned.

Blunt and sarcastic is how we usually have our conversations.

Silence as we stare at each other.

"Why is it you can't make it through a day without destroying _some_thing?"

He shrugs.

_Well, it's Haymitch,_ my brain reasons. _He's insane._

More silence.

"I take it something pissed you off? Would you like to share?" I speak very clearly and slowly, as if explaining something impossibly easy to understand for me to a young child.

He rolls his eyes angrily, picks up the closest thing to him - a bottle - and chucks it at me. I easily sidestep it and raise my eyebrows at him.

"You called for a reason. To talk or something along those lines. So why don't you talk or something along those lines?" I am starting to grow very impatient with him, this usually half-drunken, overgrown toddler.

He looks blankly at me for a moment longer, before gesturing to one of the chairs at the never used dining table as he takes one himself. I seat myself in the one directly opposite him, willing to stare him down until he concedes to spilling whatever it is he should be spilling. He runs a hand through his wild dark hair, clutching it in distress. Wow. Haymitch legitimately looks like he's worrying about something. Along with the "pissed off at the world" expression he normally wears of course.

He starts speaking in a low, aggravated tone, until I complain that I can't hear him, and he shoots me a look and starts over in a louder voice.

"Nothing. Johanna called - Mason, you met her once. She just happened to be the messenger of some very... disappointing news." He words this all very carefully, something I didn't know Haymitch was capable of until now. His lips form a straight line and his jaw is set tighter than usual - the telltale signs of lying or withholding information.

I narrow my eyes at him dangerously. "Tell me the news."

"Not here, not now," he says evasively.

"Tell me."

"Not. Now."

"Why won't you just - "

"I said no, god damn it! At least Lover Boy didn't fucking question everything!"

That stings. I can see in his eyes he knows that it does, but he is not sorry, he has no remorse or sympathy or respect for the demons of another victor. Well, I suppose that he is a joint pain we share, but the way Haymitch deals with it is by pretending it doesn't matter, and my share of the pain is far greater.

I purse my lips, push my chair back angrily so that it scrapes against the floor, and storm out with a pissed off "Goodbye, Haymitch." I make sure to slam the door behind me.

* * *

At noon, my mother, my sister, and I all gather around the television set for the reading of the card for the Quarter Quell. The last Quarter Quell, there were forty-eight tributes instead of twenty-four, the year Haymitch won. The one before that, the first, the people of the districts had to vote on who their tributes should be. This year... well, who knows what horrors they will bring.

My mother and Prim are sharing the couch, while I curl up in the big, reclining chair spaced just a yard away from it. The TV is directly across from the couch, switched on to the news channel, where most people will be watching President Cornelius Evil Snow read the stupid card that will end at least twenty-three kid's lives, and severely cripple one other's.

The "program" starts with the playing of our national anthem. Sometime during the middle of it, President Snow, followed by a young boy holding a case, takes the stage. Hmm. Still as ugly and sadistic as ever. The anthem ends, and the snake starts off on a long story about how the Games began, and the Dark Days, and the two previous Quells. Then he gets on with it to the part that we're even watching this otherwise useless television for.

"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell." The little boy steps forward, and President Snow opens the box, removes the first envelope from the rows of envelopes and opens it. He pulls out the small piece of square paper and begins to read. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even their strongest cannot protect the ones near and dear to them, and they all will lose those they love again if they decide to rebel once more, the male and female tributes shall be reaped from a pool of friends and family of living victors."

My mother drops her cup and gives a shriek. Prim's cheeks slowly become a waterfall of tears. She mumbles a name I don't catch. And I don't catch it because I'm too hung up on trying to figure out what the fuck that means.

_"... family and friends of living victors."_

Haymitch has no relatives, no "friends" who are not victors themselves. District Twelve's only other living victor is me. Gale is too old for the reaping now. Prim has already been reaped and so cannot be reaped again...

My mind drawls two names, the only possible male and female candidates.

Rory and Madge.


	3. The Patron Saint Of Liars And Fakes

**The Other Side of Eden**

**Part One: All That Remains**

**Chapter Two: The Patron Saint Of Liars And Fakes**

* * *

_"But the day pressed on like crushing weights;  
For no man does it ever wait,  
Like memories of dying days  
That deafen us like hurricanes.  
Bathed in flames we held the brand,  
Uncurled the fingers in your hand,  
Pressed into the flesh like sand.  
Now do you understand?"_

-from "Savior" by Rise Against

* * *

I sit with my back pressed along every rough spot and crevice in the tree behind me, my arms tied to each other by my folded hands resting in my lap. "Pretend that yesterday was a nightmare" were the exact words I had said to my kid sister the day after my father died, and now they echo through my head in my own voice, telling me to get over myself and think about this logically, critically, find the loophole. I purse my lips. Maybe the problem is that there _isn't_ a loophole.

Game is scarce today. My snares catch just one rabbit, and I only manage to shoot down a couple of birds; the fish aren't biting either. A hollow day for the Hawthrone home if I don't start moving my ass. No. I will invite them all over to stay in my house in the Victor's Village, even if it will be a tight fit; god knows both of our families need the comfort of being together, though they might resent me, even hate me for being the cause of their son going into the Games in a matter of months. I hadn't spoken to them yesterday. I should have. I should have gone over there and apologized and held Hazelle while she cried over her son, rubbed Posy's back as she wondered why all her family was in tears, and shared that knowing look with a half-conscious Gale, the one that said "I'll be here through it all."

But can I promise them such a thing? How can I when there is no guarantee I won't pull an Elaine Everdeen and shut out the world, prop up the walls, and throw away the key to the gates? Maybe cowardice ran in the genes, the merchant ones I got from my mother. No. Cowardice is the wrong word choice. Selfishness? Weakness? No, no. The statement is altogether wrong either way. Katniss Everdeen is a fighter, her father's daughter, yes. Katniss Everdeen stands up for those she loves and protects them at all cost, yes. Katniss Everdeen will not stand by while the people she cares about suffer. Okay, I can do this.

_Well, then why are you still sitting here?_

Sometimes I do absolutely loathe that inner, blunt voice of mine. It can be terribly irritating. However, it is usually never wrong, another reason I hate it. Funny how people are always hated for speaking the truth when we're all thinking the same thing anyway.

It's carved in the stone, sealed in fate, written in the stars, proclaimed by the angels, however you want me to phrase it. The point is, there is absolutely nothing I can do to prevent Madge and Rory from entering the Quarter Quell. However... how they perform in those Games isn't to be decided by how they would do now, rather how they would do at the time of the 75th Hunger Games. Theoretically, the so called "Careers" have been doing this for years, so I don't know how I could have missed this before, come to this grim conclusion so late.

I stand up and brush the dirt of my old, worn hunting pants. I smile tightly and thrust my hands into my pockets as I drag myself back inside the fence surrounding District 12. This would not be pleasant, and would probably only hurt everyone more emotionally in the end, but I suppose it's worth the effort to at least try. After all, what other choice do I have? I sigh quietly to myself. "I'm going to train them to survive the Games." As unbelievable as that is.

I shake my head, feeling an emotion I cannot place. I think it is something like a mix of dread, doubt, fear, and grim determination. Whatever the precise word for it is, it is all accurately summed up in a single shake of my head and the hollow laugh that follows after. Of course, only one of them can possibly win, and even that's a long shot. Rory's been into the woods hunting and gathering with me a few times; I could probably train him to survive, though I don't suppose that anyone really ever needs to teach a Seam kid how to survive. Madge is a tougher story, though Rory is considerably younger. She's pretty, very pretty. Cinna will play that up on whatever angle he thinks she'll best be able to pull off. I would teach her edible plants and how to make fires and set snares, that sort of thing. I better get her practicing with a knife as well; best to give her something to defend herself.

Hmm. I'm finding that I'm becoming better and better at kidding myself, so much so, that I'm actually considering the possibility of one of them coming home, even if the idea of parting with either of them is completely horrible. But say one of them did make it out alive, what cost would they have to pay? Nightmares and reminders and fear and guilt and depression, naturally. But there are also the personal demons that each victor carries with them. I knew mine. What would their's be?

I get so wrapped up in my preparations and speculations that I don't realize it when I've left the meadow and enter the poorer section of the district. I don't recognize it when the dirt road turns to the cobblestone of the town's square. I don't realize it when the cobblestone of the merchant area turns to the paved road of the Victor's Village. I don't realize it when I enter my house, or when I walk up the stairs and collapse on my bed.

My mind is racing, filled to the brim with all the possibilities, with all the plans that would need to be perfectly executed to pull something like this off. I don't even realize it when suddenly I'm fast asleep; even in unconsciousness, I still plot and calculate and ponder my next move in these dangerous Games. But, such is the life of a victor.

I'm not asleep very long at all before I wake up from a disturbing dream. What's particularly unnerving about it is that it isn't a nightmare, just an ominous, grave sort of... omen, in which the room is dark and misty and completely, depressingly empty. I shake my head, stretching my arms up into the air. No. I don't believe in that supernatural shit. I believe in truth, in fact, in what can be explained and rationalized; that's not much, I know.

I sneak a glance at my bedside clock out of the corner of my eye. Wow. I slept an entire ten hours, a personal record actually. I debate the probability of getting as much sleep tonight; the odds are not in my favor, to say the absolute least.

When I finally make my way downstairs, I learn from my mother that Effie Trinket called about two hours ago to offer her condolences of sorts and to promise to send me more pancake mix. Yes, Effie, because pancakes can solve anything. _Well, she's trying_, the nicer side of my brain offered in the defense of the escort of District Twelve's tributes. Maybe in the Capitol pancakes are an appropriate way to mourn the loss of at least one loved one. My mother also says that she and Prim will be going over to the Hawthorne's shortly, if I'd care to join them. I promise to meet them there; there are some things I have to take care of beforehand.

My first stop is Haymitch's house. The drunk is passed out on the shorter of the two couches in what used to be the living room. To wake him, I just decide on the good old waterworks, which turned out to be a rather bad idea as I'd forgotten for the moment that Haymitch always slept armed, so I wasn't prepared for a knife wielding psychopath to come at me. However, Haymitch realized it was only me and stuck the knife into his pants like a tool belt; I didn't think that was the best option but... well, it's Haymitch.

"Whataya want?" he slurs irritably.

"Jeez, you hate waking up almost as much as you hate going to sleep in the first place, don't you?" I observe, mildly entertained.

He rolls his dark gray eyes and swaggers with an uneven step over into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets until he finds a bottle full enough for his liking. He pops the cork off, leans back against the counter and takes a long swig of the alcohol. "I ain't gonna repeat myself, sweetheart; come on, I got better things to do than deal with your teenage girl drama." He spits this out during one of his breaks for air, waving his hand at me to get on with it.

I narrow my eyes, a carbon copy of his, and snort indignantly. "To think that children dying has become apart of the category of 'teenage girl drama.'"

"Hey, I got you home, didn't I?" he defends, wearing an expression that clearly demands "what else do you expect from me?" In all honesty, I don't expect anything from Haymitch, but I figure that he might possibly be able to help me with this, give me some pointers or tactics or, god forbid, some actual_ help_. No. What I expect from him and what I want him to do are two entirely different things.

"Well, I'm just sorry for actually giving a damn about my best friend's brother and one of the only girls my age to ever willingly speak to me. I'm sorry for actually wanting to bring one of them home," I snap, my temper flaring as it often does when I'm in close proximity of Haymitch and all his drunk, infuriating glory. "Or didn't you ever have people that you cared about, Haymitch?"

Instead of getting angry like I had expected, he stares down at his bottle with a blank expression, level gaze, and dead eyes. His voice is a monotone. "Yeah, well. We can't all be the amazing Katniss Everdeen and save the world."

"Who says I'm saving the world?"

He glances up and me and then back down at his liquor. "Nobody. Forget about it."

"Forgotten."

He purses his lips and glares off into space, absently switching his bottle from hand to hand. "So let me get this on straight enough," he begins patronizingly. "You wanna play savior, yes?"

I narrow my eyes, refusing to dignify that question with an answer.

He nods his head, his over-long, greasy hair swinging around his face. He takes in another gulp; the bottle is very nearly empty at this point. "You wanna be a Career then. That can go one of two ways, 'course you know this already, don't you? Yeah. Well, I don't want any part in this, understand? I got bigger things to worry about. I'll mentor during the Games, obviously, and in the days in Capital proceeding it, but I won't go out of my way."

Anger flashes white hot through my veins. "Then why'd you even bother with me?"

He dismisses this with a shake of his head. "Your volunteering made you interesting. Cinna made you noticeable. Your training score caught the sponsors' eyes. And that boy was damn determined to protect you... You won those Games, easy. I knew you'd win, 'course everyone did. I hardly did anything; it was basically all you, sweetheart." He notices I'm about to say something and cuts me off. "Now, don't flatter yourself; I don't like you at all."

"Gee, I love you too, Haymitch."

"Don't think that you've won any points with me," he continues as if I had not spoken. "Why should I care about two more deaths? What are two more deaths to prevent -" He breaks off abruptly, his teeth audibly snapping together. "My point is, no, I don't have the time to help you and you don't have the time to help them, but if you're so sure you can get one of them home... Tell me what you're thinking, how you think you'll get them outta there, I'll tell you what I think, you go off on your missionary business to rescue your dear brother's nephew and the rich brat -"

"My best friend's brother and Madge, who is _not_ a brat."

"Whatever. Then you move on with your life and I can get back to mine. Comprehend? You have five minutes; start talking."

I'm aggravated with him to say the least, but this is probably the only opportunity I'll get to make him listen to me. So, since it's in my interest, I don't press a case. "Rory's a tough kid; I've taken him with me into the woods a few times, he's learning with a bow and decent with a knife. He's just like his brother in that he has a gift for snares. The problem is, though he looks older, he's barely thirteen and it's not like he appears to be so much older that he's got much of a build. Madge... well, she's seventeen, blonde, and gorgeous. She could play innocent and harmless but in reality I'd have trained her up on survival skills and preferably taught her something or two with some knives. What's your take?"

He solemnly raises his eyebrows. "You thought this out, huh?" He pauses, studying me for any changes of expression or sudden moves or vocalizations. When he finds none, he continues tiredly. "Well, there's not much I can say, except that I really hope you don't end up completely batshit insane like the rest of us. The District 12 tributes need at least one semi-sane mentor." He hesitates once more before giving me an unreadable look. "It's like you were born to do this."

I snort, repressing laughter. "That's a depressing thought," I note.

He nods seriously. "Hmm." A very thoughtful expression takes over his face and we wait, for what I haven't the faintest idea, in silence for at least a few minutes before he suddenly snaps out of it, shaking his head and taking an especially long drink from his bottle, emptying it. He tosses it into the sink, cracking it in a few places. "Alright, you can get out of my house now. I got shit to take care of."

"Right, 'cause I was waiting for your permission," I say sardonically, rolling my eyes. I'm fairly certain that even if I promise to clean his entire house for free he won't tell me what "shit" he has to "take care of," so I don't bother asking. I don't linger either; Haymitch's house isn't a place I like to spend too long loitering in.

My next destination is far better in appearance, but my business there is far more taxing than the confirmation of my ideas to Haymitch. I've travelled the route from the Victor's Village to the merchant part of town so often that it takes me not long at all, even when taking into account my dragging feet. I have only been to the mayor's house a handful of times, most of which were either me and Gale at the back door selling strawberries or directly after I won the Games. Somehow, it seems far less grand in my eyes now; I see the house and it's residents suffering just as much as the rest of us, because, truth is, no one really has it good, do they?

The sound of the knocker banging on the front door resonates through the house. Footsteps. The heavy white wood door is gently pulled open. Upon seeing me, the mayor's wife begins to cry. This I previously expected, but I did not expect her to embrace me while doing so, slap me maybe, but not hold onto me as if I were life itself. She is mumbling things; I only catch phrases such as "again," "kill them all," which was a little out of character for Mrs. Undersee, "alone," and a distinctly clear and longer phrase, the last I could decipher: "You look so much like your mother."

Did I? I'd always got that I resembled my father more than my mother, what with the hair and the eyes and the ears and the nose and the eyebrows and the crooked pinkie finger. I mean, it's not like I share _no_ traits with my mother (the small build, the mouth, the high cheekbones), but the only person who had ever said those words to me prier to Madge's mother were my father; even then I scowled at him when he said that. But now, I say nothing. I do not scowl or grimace or roll my eyes or huff in annoyance. Because everything's different when someone's crying on your shoulder.

She never pulls back of her own will, rather Mayor Undersee transfers her from my arms to his when he walks in and sees the scene, mouthing the words "She's upstairs" at me over her shoulder. I nod at him, carefully assessing the deep pain buried in his eyes before silently ascending the staircase.

I knock lightly on Madge's door, cracking it open and peering inside to see her sitting on her bed, staring at a blank spot on her wall with the utmost concentration. She appears not to notice my arrival, even when I call her name, so I simply sit down next to her, smoothing the blankets out beneath me carefully so as to not ruin the clean, orderly folds of it. We sit in silence, me wondering what she is thinking and wondering if she even knows I'm here, and she staring with that quiet focus on nothing in particular.

Her voice, light, calm, even, pierces the stale air like the drop of the guillotine's blade. "What's it like to watch someone die?"

I blink and turn my head in her direction, considering the empty expression of her face, and the contrasting intensity of her bright blue eyes, perfectly staring at that small insignificant spot on that insignificant, empty wall. I sigh, shrugging my shoulders nonchalantly. "Haven't you witnessed the starvation here for years?"

But she is shaking her head before I am even halfway through the sentence. "No, no. I don't mean that. I mean what's it like to look someone in the eyes until the light leaves them? What's it like to know that it had to happen sooner or later? To know that there's nothing to be done about it, to prevent it? That it will happen to so many more _children_? What's it like to hold someone's fate in your hands and know that you have no choice but to destroy it? What's it like to live with that knowledge that if you were dead, then someone else would be alive? What's it like to stare death in the face? Resignation? Defiance? Fear? What goes on in your head in that arena?"

It seems a long speech for Madge. I reevaluate that determined stare in her eyes. I smirk. Madge was always tough for a rich chick. "You want to know the cost of living? The cost of dying? You want to know what it's like in that place." It is unnecessary for her to nod, and she knows that, so she doesn't, just waits expectantly. "You don't want to live, you don't want to die. It's all you think about, day in, day out. Towards the end it's boring almost, quiet, eerie, an air of resignation sets it. The bloodbath is nerve racking and terror inducing. The anthem mocks you when it plays at night. You don't want to look up at the sky to see the faces but you know you must. The before and the after the Games both completely, totally _suck_. Most of the time you can't think clearly. Sometimes you wonder why you bother, what it will even mean if you make it, why it's even a priority to live. You start to wonder what it is you're really fighting for. You want to think of a way to show them up, tell the Capitol that they don't own you. It's... to be perfectly blunt, it's like hell, but more graphic. No words could ever really do the Hunger Games any justice."

She purses her lips. "So... basically, never let them take the light behind your eyes?" She looks over and meets my eyes, never wavering with eye contact.

"Never let them take the light behind your eyes," I agree.

She snorts. "Cheers."

I nod, a smirk forming on my face, because I've just discovered who exactly I'm friends with. A potential victor. Yeah, Madge has what it takes, when it comes down to it. Maybe she's more like me than I'd thought. I figure she'll have no problem with my plan. "Yeah, I'll drink to that." I lay back down on top of the thick blankets. A sigh escapes my lips. "I'll drink to that."


End file.
